Love and Murder
by notsodarklord
Summary: A new serial killer shows up during Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Louisiana. One with a particularly gruesome disposition. Can the BAU capture this new sadist in time? And will Morgan possibly find a new love? After all, the world's biggest party must go on. Morgan/OC.
1. Chapter 1: The Begining

**Author's note: First time writing a story! Yay me!**

**I own absolutely nothing except my OC. Because if I did own Criminal Minds, I would steal Reid in a heartbeat.**

* * *

There was another case.

Not that the idea was foreign to the BAU team, many people die every day, what struck them is the almost impeccable execution of the rather brutal murders.

"This would make 6 now, and again with no apparent evidence of a murder. Besides, you know, the bodies of dead women without any skin." Penelope Garcia informed the rest of the group, disgust wrinkling her nose.

"The ability of the UNSUB to have enough patience and strength to subdue and skin the victims alive suggests that the person we are looking for is most likely male." Spencer Reid commented, as the other nodded their heads in acceptance of his theory.

"Do the police know what the UNSUB did with the skin?" JJ asked almost hesitantly.

"No, and thank god. It already ruined my appetite for lunch, it's not ruining my dinner." Garcia quipped.

Rossi closed his folder, adding, "Even so, the timing of this killer is perfect. Mardi Gras time has one of the highest death rate in New Orleans festivals."

"Approximately 20 per year, actually."

"And Boy Wonder strikes again." Morgan smirks. "Any more information, Baby Girl?"

"I didn't bother with anything more, my dark chocolate muffin."

"Call the local police in New Orleans and tell them that we should get there in about two hours." Hotch ordered, standing up. "I assume we all have decided to take this case. I say we have our work cut out for us."

* * *

A young Cajun woman slammed the quality-grade sugar bag on the ground of the restaurant kitchen, wiping the sweat off her face.

"Rosaline Estelle Boisseau, you better get 'yo crosse in here immediately, I only get 'ta see 'ma grandbaby once!"

Rosaline wrung out her sore hands, walking to the dining area of her recently renovated restaurant.

"Mamere Boudreaux! What 'choo doin' here on the other side of the Bayou?" She said with astonishment, running up to hug her grandmother.

"I been hearin' some talk on the Island-"

"You mean you overheard Papere Boudreaux make the veiller?"

Grandmother Boudreaux gave her next of kin a cross look, making a show of clearing her throat. As I was sayin', befo' a bebette interrupted me..." The elder glared, and Rosaline giggled lightly, elation playing in her dark eyes. "I been hearin' of a murderer ova' here killin' pretty young negresse's. I jus' don' want ta' find my bouillee gone." The elder finished, wiping away an emotional tear.

Rosaline smiled slyly, though trying to hide it behind a mocha-colored hand. "Mamere..." She began, as her grandmother looked up at the taller woman. "I've been the one killin' all them people."

Grandmother Boudreaux's eyes grew to saucers, and grabbed a napkin as a makeshift fan, flapping it quickly. She looked away from the younger woman, (who was on the verge of bursting out laughing) muttering a mix of English and French that best described her disbelief.

Rosaline couldn't help bursting laughing, to which the elder woman looked at the other as if she had grown another head.

"Oh pauvre defante!" She laughed loudly, pulling her grandmother into a hug. "I don' know what's worse! There is a serial killer runin' loose, or that you would think me to be one!"

Grandmother Boudreaux smiled, boxing her granddaughter's hands away. "'Ya bonne a rienne!" She teased, glancing at the clock. "Mon dieu, it's already dinner time! 'Ya goin' 'ta cook me some boudin for the road? Afta' all, you did almost cause my fragile heart 'ta break."

Rosaline laughed, running her hands through her hair, then tying the loose curls into a bun. "Shu' thing mamere. You can listen 'ta some jazz while I'm cookin', they should be here any minute." She replied, walking into the kitchen.

* * *

**Author's Note: So, first chapter. It's short, I know. If I get enough reviews, (*winkwinknudgenudge*) I will continue the story. With longer chapters and whatnot.  
**

_**Crosse: Bottom.  
Veiller: Means chatted with friends.**_  
_**Bebette: Kind-of like a demon-child. Naughty, mostly.**_  
_**Negresse: Not actually a racial term. Used when talking to other Cajuns. Usually a term of endearment.**_  
_**Bouillee: Pudding.**_  
_**Pauvre defante: Poor mother.**_  
_**Bonne a rienne: Good-for-nothing-woman.**_


	2. Chapter 2: Meet n' Greet

**Author's note: I own absolutely nothing except my OC. Because if I did own Criminal Minds, I would probably cast myself on the show. I also do not own Pêche Seafood Grill. I am not making any money on this (most regrettably).**

* * *

The BAU team arrived at the bustling city of New Orleans. Purple, green, and gold decorated the streets, and about everyone had giddy smiles on their faces.

It was around dusk, and beyond the light and jovial thoughts and actions of the partygoers, there was still a murderer on the rise.

"The origins of Mardi Gras can be traced to medieval Europe, passing through Rome and Venice in the 17th and 18th centuries to the French House of the Bourbons. From here, the traditional revelry of 'Boeuf Gras,' or fatted calf, followed France to its colonies." Reid commented, watching two girls dressed in frilly, pink-white, Victorian era dresses.

"Ah, so that's it is called 'Fat Tuesday." Prentiss stated, nodding her head in understanding.

They stepped into the local police station, and were greeted with the same exuberant expressions as the people outside.

"Welcome to N'awlins! Where yat?" A giddy-looking man who looked around 60, donning a gold badge, declaring his name to be 'Detective Lafleur'.

The BAU team looked at each other, though mostly Reid, with confusion in their eyes, wondering if someone could answer.

Detective Lafleur laughed heartily, slapping his knee as if he heard the funniest joke on earth.

"I fo'got y'all were city folk for a min'! I was axn' how ya'll were."

Hotch nodded solemnly. "Very well, thank you. However, we would like to get this case over with."

The New Orleans detective nodded, bringing up a hand to his mouth in thought.

"Weh, I agree. Well, we'd already interview'd 'da family. I don' feel li' goin' back ta' da' crime scene. It gives me da' fremeers."

"Any witnesses?" Morgan asked.

"Naw. Bu' there is someone who be knowin' errthing on errbody. I was jus' on ma' way ta' go interview 'er." The older detective said, rattling his keys.

Hotch nods, turning to his team. "Morgan, you go with Detective Lafleur. Prentiss and JJ, you two go to the family of the most recent victim, see if they have any more information. Reid and Rossi, you will be coming with me to the latest crime scene."

Detective Lafleur walked forward, towards the exit, patting Morgan in the bicep. "Looks like you be stuck with me." He smiles, leading the way to his pick-up truck. "S'ry if I bore ya' ta' death."

* * *

It was after ten, and that meant that the dinner rush was almost over for Rosaline's popular restaurant.

The woman wiped her brow, grabbing up a couple plates of beignets to serve her still remarkably hungry customers.

Rosaline Boisseau is, and had always been, a hard worker; from keeping her grades perfect in secondary school to gaining the highest honors in her college graduating class. At 22, she created her own restaurant, Pêche Seafood Grill, with a culinary and business management degree.

With its rustic, yet upscale physique and tendency to draw anyone who can afford a bowl of gumbo, Rosaline knew almost every event, rumor, person, and affair, even some which occurred away from the Big Easy.

So, it was no surprise that she knew about the murders, maybe even before the police did. But that didn't stop her excitement for the up-and-coming parades.

After serving the beignets to a nice visiting family from Chicago, and chatting a bit with a friendly woman about the messed-up political system of the Cayman Islands, Rosaline decided to go back to her office for some needed hours of tax filing. However, on her way to the kitchen to drop off the platter, some guy walked through the door with one of the local detectives.

Cue the cliché romance movie.

With beautifully chiseled features; sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, fabulous muscles, and deep brown eyes that you just wanted to have a never-ending staring contest with; he looked like a modern-day and living David.

_**Crash**_

"Watch where you are going!"

Rosaline woke up from her daydream to find her platter not in her hand, but indeed on the floor along with herself and a waiter.

Morgan saw the crash, and jogged up to help the two. "Are you okay?"

The disgruntled waiter curtly nodded, grabbing both his plate and Rosaline's, and walked away into the kitchen.

Morgan held out his hand to the startled-looking woman, smiling gently. "Are you okay, Ma'am?"

Rosaline took his hand, noticing how soft it was, and stood up. She nodded quickly, for once at a loss of words, and smoothed out her clothes quickly.

"I see tha' 'ya 'ave met ma' next interviewee." Detective Lafleur chuckled. "Where yat, Miss Rosaline? I see tha' ya' business is as busy as eva'."

Rosaline smiles back. "I'm doin' well detective. Ya' bring ya' friend 'ova for some of ma' jambalaya?"

Morgan decided to jump in on the naming. "I'm Derek, Derek Morgan, special agent for the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. We were hoping that you might have some information about recent events." He said, sticking out his hand for a second time.

"Eh-he." Rosaline laughed sheepishly, shaking his hand, a bit longer that hat is considered appropriate.

"S' can ya' help us?" Detective Lafleur thankfully broke the awkward silence.

"Hm? Oh, o'course. It should be quieter in ma' office." Rosaline said, motioning for them to follow her. "What cha' need?"

* * *

**Author's note: Got to love Spring Break and procrastination. Let me know if I have messed anything up.**

_**N'awlins: New Orleans**_

_**Where yat: Basically 'Hi, how are you'. Not 'Where are you'.**_

_**Weh: Yes**_

_**Fremeers: More or less has a creepy feel.**_

_**Beignets: Delicious doughnut things.**_

_**Big Easy: Slang for New Orleans. Everything is sort-of laid back.**_

_**David: The sculpture by Michelangelo.**_


	3. Chapter 3: The Killing

**A/N: Here is the third chapter! Sorry it took so long.**

**Warning: Graphic description of skinning.**

* * *

The three men arrived at the small house in the outskirts of New Orleans, only about 30 minutes from the heart of the animated city. They all walked into the house, and turned on the lights, however, they did not turn on for reasons unknown, which added to the uneasy feeling that emanated from the one-bedroom, two-bath crime scene. Hotch walked over to the curtains in order to let in some natural light. The first thing they noticed was the blood, which seemed to cover the floor as if someone got tired of the beige tile and wanted something different. The house was decorated heavily; little trinkets from around the world were sitting relatively unharmed on the shelves, and colorful woven blankets covered most of the couch and chairs.

"Did any of the other victims travel?" Rossi asked, picking up a Babushka doll, tuning the wooden toy carefully.

"Yes, why?" Hotchner answered, looking up from the stack of mail left on the counter.

"Because it seems like the UNSUB is targeting women in their late twenties who like to travel."

"Hey, look at this."

The two turned to look at their youngest member.

Reid held up a letter.

"It seem like it is from the UNSUB." He said incredulously. "I don't know how the police missed this."

"Well, what does it say?"

Spencer held it towards the light coming from one of the only two windows.

"You left me. Now you will pay."

"At least it is to the point." Rossi commented with a small sigh.

"Could it be that the UNSUB had dated all of these women?"

"We can't throw away the idea that he is simply delusional."

"We can't throw away either idea yet." Hotch added. "Call Garcia, tell her to look at all the men in the victim's lives, and see if anything comes up."

"Gotcha, and we better make our way over to the medical examiner." Reid replied, checking his watch. "It's getting a little late."

* * *

"The skinning is not the cause of the death. It is really common to misconstrue. It is too difficult to skin this cleanly without killing before." The medical examiner said, picking up a small flashlight, and pointing the beam of light to the distorted neck of the woman. "The cause of death, I am almost certain, is hanging. See the bruising on the muscle and the snapped neck bone? But it was not instantaneous; she probably was in pain for a minute or so. Still brutal, in my opinion."

The three agents sighed in relief.

"So how does one theoretically skin a human?"

The medical examiner made a noise of amusement.

"Funny you should ask. I was wondering that myself. I would assume it would be like dressing a deer or any other large mammal." The middle-aged coroner turned around, grabbing a pair of scissors.

"He probably propped her on her back after she was dead and made a cut from just above her genitals, up to the rib cage." She took the scissors, and dragged them along the now-stitched cut on her body. "He then cut through the ribs to make it easier to reach up into her chest." She took the scissors and made a slashing motion in the air.

"Then, he turned her on her side and allowed the guts to fall out. It took a bit of cutting the fatty tissue, though. Then he would have to reach into her throat and tear out the esophagus. Then the lungs easily go out."

The three men cringed.

"Now, for the skinning. He put her back up on the rope, and made a circular cut around her neck. He then connected this cut with the cut made in the stomach. He then removed the skin by grasping it and pulling down hard with both hands."

"That sounds awful." Reid blurted. They have seen ugly, but not this mangled.

"Agreed. The others were the same. Poor girls." The coroner replied, setting down the cutters, fixing her gray wire-rimmed glasses.

"We appreciate your demonstration; contact us if you have any more information." Hotchner said a bit too brusquely, as he was as uncomfortable as the other two.

"Yes, thank you." Rossi gave the woman his business card. "We need to report this information to the local police, anyway."

And they all rushed away from the wrinkled woman, the tall, gray building, and most importantly, the revolting body of a poor young woman who was at the receiving end of a serial killer.


End file.
